William Butler Yeats
I met them at dusk,
A lively face.
Grey house from18th century.
Behind the desk or counter.
Nodded when passing by.
Or talk nonsense,
Or stop and say a few words occasionally.
Polite and meaningless gossip,
I thought of it before I finished it.
A satirical story or anecdote,
All right, go to the club and sit by the fire
Telling it to your partner will make you happy,
Because, I'm sure they and I
But live like a clown:
Everything has changed, completely changed:
A terrible beauty was born.
That woman is here all day.
Out of well-intentioned ignorance.
At night, you argue with others.
Until her voice became shrill.
She is young and beautiful,
While she was riding and hunting,
Who can match that sweet voice?
This man used to run a school,
And ride our flying horse;
The other is his friend,
Will work with him and help him make plans;
His nature is so keen,
His ideas are bold and novel,
He may win fame in the end.
The other person I think of
He is a vain and vulgar alcoholic.
He once treated the man in my heart.
Did something very despicable,
And I also mentioned him in the song;
He also gave up and relaxed there.
His role in absurd comedy;
It changed when it was his turn,
He has completely changed;
A terrible beauty was born.
Many people's hearts have only one purpose,
It seems that after summer and winter.
Was enchanted and turned into stone,
We should stop the busy flow.
Horses running on the road,
Riders, flying around.
Birds rolling in the clouds,
It changes every minute;
Clouds are reflected on the stream.
It changes every minute;
A horseshoe glides across the stream,
A horse splashed water in the stream;
Long-legged female waterfowl jumps into the water,
The female calls the rooster;
They live every minute:
That stone is in the middle of all this.
Sacrifice has been too long.
Can turn thoughts into stones.
Oh, when will it be enough?
This is fate, our business.
Is to whisper one name after another,
Just like a mother calling her children,
When sleepiness finally comes.
Running on the limbs in the wild.
What else is there besides night?
No, not the night, but death;
After all, is that kind of death not worth it?
Because Britain may keep its promise,
For everything that has been done and said.
We know their dreams;
Until they dreamed about it, and now they are dead.
Enough; If excessive love
What if you confuse them?
I write everything in poetry.
McDonagh and McBride,
Connolly and Pierce's generation,
Now and in the future,
As long as there is green everywhere,
They will all change and become thorough:
A terrible beauty was born.